


Their Hearts and Minds as One

by originally



Series: Dissonant Verses [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bath Houses, Exhibitionism, Gangbang, M/M, Multi, PWP, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-16 23:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13646415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/pseuds/originally
Summary: Cullen and Dorian visit a bathhouse.





	Their Hearts and Minds as One

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of people asked for this sequel and it's been sitting unfinished on my harddrive since 2015. This is not quite the story I intended to write, but in the name of amnestying WIPs that are just going to sit in my drawer forever otherwise, here it is.

In his naiveté, Cullen does not fully understand what Dorian intends when he suggests they visit a bathhouse in a sidestreet of Val Royeaux.

“Remind me again why we’re wearing masks?” he asks, glancing at Dorian sidelong as they weave their way through the crowds on the main plaza and emerge onto a quiet, shadowed street of indistinguishable white facades.

“I thought you might appreciate a day off from being Ser Cullen Rutherford, Most Glorious Commander of the Inquisition Forces and Generally Extremely Important Person,” Dorian says blithely, his jewelled blue and green mask betraying little of his expression, though his moustache twitches. Cullen frowns, but says nothing.

They stop in front of a door that looks no different from any other on the street, apart from a masked guard outside who looks Cullen up and down: a slow, insolent drag of his eyes that leaves Cullen feeling vaguely unclean and suddenly grateful for his own lion mask. Dorian lets out a low, warm chuckle when he feels Cullen shift awkwardly, and steers him inside with a nod to the guard and a hand at the small of Cullen’s back. Cullen feels a surge of warmth at the proprietary touch; it’s taken a long time for Dorian to become comfortable with displays of actual affection, as untroubled as he is by fucking in all kinds of dark corners of Skyhold.

The bathhouse is lavishly decorated, with white marble walls carved with frescos of vines and leaves, floors tiled with patterns in black and white, a long corridor lined with columns. They step through into a large changing area filled with marble benches and a number of men in various stages of undress. Another uniformed Orlesian passes them each a white cotton towel at the door. Dorian grins over at Cullen, and begins to strip off his clothes, fingers dealing deftly with the clasp of his long coat and the fastenings of his robes. Cullen follows suit; he’s used to barracks and communal bathing, and he’s never felt self-consciousness over his body. He is aware, however, that some of the other men are shooting them interested glances, particularly when Dorian steps out of his breeches and poses before Cullen in all his insouciant, naked glory. Cullen sweeps his eyes up Dorian’s familiar body: his muscular thighs, the firm plane of his stomach, his smooth chest, all that immaculate brown skin unmarred by anything to suggest Dorian has ever worked a day in his life. When Cullen reaches his face, Dorian’s eyes are twinkling.

“Don’t you think the mask adds a certain something?” he drawls. “I'm thinking about having a statue made. Perhaps in dragon bone.”

“Oh yes,” Cullen says, fondly mocking, “that would look wonderful in the centre of the courtyard. We’re leaving the masks on?”

Dorian grins as he wraps a towel around his waist and hands Cullen his. “You’ll see why. Ready?”

Cullen doesn’t think to wonder what he’s supposed to be ready for.

Dorian tugs at Cullen's hand and urges him down the corridor. There are doors leading off at intervals and Cullen catches glimpses of masked men in the chambers within, twined together, flashes of bare skin, hands on naked backs. He feels parochial, every inch the sheltered Fereldan chantry boy, when he has the sudden realisation that no one comes here to _bathe_. He turns to Dorian, who smirks.

“It’s not quite the same as being at a party in Tevinter with excellent wine flowing like water, I’ll grant you,” Dorian says, eyes glinting with mischief under his mask, “but I thought there might be some fun to be had here.”

“Did you?” Cullen says. He slips his hand back into Dorian’s, curling their fingers together easily. “What kind of fun would that be?”

Dorian grins and moves suddenly to press Cullen back against the wall. “Can’t you guess?” he murmurs into Cullen’s ear, in a low voice that makes him shiver, and _oh_.

Dorian's mouth is hot on Cullen's neck and his free hand wanders down Cullen’s side, settling intimately at his hip. Cullen arches up into his touch.

“You, naked, in a place like this,” he says, words almost lost in a gasp as Dorian mouths at his jaw, “every man will want you.” It's a question wrapped in a statement, a confirmation that he understands exactly what it is that Dorian is offering.

“Yes, I know,” Dorian says lightly, with that casual arrogance that Cullen had found so off-putting in the beginning. “That was rather the plan, in fact.”

Anticipation courses bright through Cullen's body.

There is, at first, at least a pretence of bathing. Dorian leads him into another chamber, one filled with steam, where they sit for a while, thighs touching and fingers brushing against each other. Cullen allows the warmth to suffuse him and bleed away some of the tension he hadn't quite realised he’d been carrying in his shoulders and back. He can't make out much through the haze of steam, but there are noises: the sounds of men’s pleasure, grunts and deep moans and Orlesian curses. Dorian’s long fingers slide over to Cullen's lap; he's not hard yet, but his cock is certainly becoming interested.

“Do you want to have me first,” Dorian murmurs, “or last?”

Cullen’s breath catches at that and his cock twitches. “Last,” he says, without needing to think about it, “but let me get you ready.”

Dorian makes a soft noise of approval and produces a small vial of oil. Before Cullen can think to wonder where it came from, Dorian stands and lets his towel drop to the floor. As he looks at him, Cullen feels a sudden twinge of worry about the reputation of the Inquisition; the masks disguise their faces well enough that strangers won't remember them, but anyone who knows them will not be fooled for a moment. But as soon as Dorian settles himself on his knees with the towel under him, arms resting on the bench and beautiful arse in the air, Cullen can't find it in himself to be concerned. He runs his hand over Dorian's bare skin, traces the hard ridges of his spine, the curve of his back, and downwards to the swell of his backside. He lets his fingers drag teasingly between Dorian’s cheeks, over the tender tops of his thighs, until Dorian huffs an impatient noise.

“Will you stop being coy? It doesn't suit either of us.”

Cullen grins, and leans down to kiss Dorian’s flank before unstoppering the bottle of oil, dripping some onto his fingers and down onto Dorian’s skin. Dorian hisses as it slides down his thighs, and Cullen gathers it back up, running his fingers lightly across Dorian’s hole and getting him nice and slick. He presses one finger inside him, pushing against that first show of resistance that Dorian's body always offers until it gives and draws him in, so hot inside, so tight around Cullen’s finger. He stays still, content to enjoy the way Dorian’s muscles clench, until Dorian grunts and squirms back against his hand. Cullen laughs softly.

“Something you need, Dor—love?” he corrects, thinking about reputation again.

Dorian twists to look at him. There’s heat in his gaze behind the mask, the way there always is when Cullen uses that word. He feigns boredom, though, when he says, “Amatus, kindly get on with it. Don’t you want the main event?”

“Is there a rush?” Cullen says mildly, but he pushes in the second finger beside the first all the same. Dorian takes both beautifully, with a roll of his hips and a quiet intake of breath. After a heartbeat or two, Cullen draws his fingers out, gathers up some more oil, and slides them back in. He repeats the motion slowly, once, twice; with each thrust of Cullen’s hand, each twist of his fingers, he feels Dorian open a little more.

They’ve started to attract attention now. A dark-skinned man in a full-face mask sits on a bench nearby. The effect of the mask is unsettling; Cullen can’t tell anything about what he’s thinking, besides the obvious tent his cock makes in his towel. Two scrawny, bare-faced youths, who can't be more than twenty, sidle into the room, nudging each other and sneaking glances at the two of them between the kisses and touches they’re sharing. When Cullen pushes his third finger in, he hears one of them moan in tandem with Dorian.

He places a hand on Dorian’s hip and Dorian brings his own hand up to clasp it briefly, a final acknowledgement and acquiescence. He squeezes the hand in return, and then turns his attention to their audience.

“Here,” Cullen says, catching the dark eyes of the boy who’d moaned and angling Dorian’s hips to give him a better view. “Isn’t he lovely?” He draws his fingers almost all the way out, letting the boy see the way Dorian’s hole flutters and gapes before he thrusts back in.

“Fuck,” Cullen hears the boy swear, and his friend laughs.

Dorian is writhing now, meeting Cullen’s thrusts with cants of his hips. He's slick inside, and stretched wonderfully open. Cullen is almost tempted to keep going, to coax his whole fist into Dorian’s body whilst these men watch with envy in their eyes, but they had another objective in mind. It's time. Cullen pulls his fingers all the way out and Dorian makes a soft sound of protest. Cullen strokes his hip soothingly.

“Shush, love. I'm sure we'll get you filled again.”

“Well, I haven't got all day,” Dorian says, tone still somehow disdainful, as if he were doing nothing more exciting than browsing a bookshop, not waiting to be fucked on his hands and knees in an Orlesian bathhouse.

Cullen grins, and looks over to the youths again. “Which of you wants the first go?”

The dark-eyed boy visibly startles, but his friend, the redhead with the boyish curls and the smattering of freckles across his nose, doesn't hesitate. He has a defiant look on his face as he strides over to them, quickly, as if worried Cullen might withdraw the offer. His pale skin is flushed pink with arousal and his cock is hard and already leaking at the tip; it’s as long and slender as the rest of him, nestled in a bright tangle of red hair.

He puts his hands on Dorian's hips and Dorian twists around to look at him.

“Oh, Amatus, a pretty one to start with,” he says, breath catching as the head of the boy’s cock brushes his entrance.

“Go on,” Cullen says encouragingly.

The boy meets Cullen’s gaze for a brief moment before he takes a deep breath and begins to push into Dorian, just the head at first and then slowly inch by inch. Dorian moans and squirms and the boy rolls his hips when he’s fully seated, his eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. Cullen wonders whether he’s ever done this before. Whether he’s ever fucked anyone, man or woman. He probably won’t last, young as he is, but perhaps that means he’ll be ready for a second round. Arousal pools in Cullen’s belly as he watches the boy pull out and then thrust back in, his fingers biting into the meat of Dorian’s hips. From what he can see of Dorian’s expression behind his mask, it feels good. Cullen loves to watch this part: to see the pleasure flicker across Dorian’s face, to watch the layers of barbs and arrogance and sarcasm that Dorian wraps himself in like armour fall away with the primal satisfaction of sex.

A low moan from across the room draws Cullen’s attention, and he turns to see the dark-eyed boy frantically palming his own cock as he watches his—friend? lover?—fuck Dorian.

“Why don’t you come over here?” he calls to the boy, who stares at him with wide eyes. “He has a mouth too.”

Dorian snorts. “You make me sound very appealing,” he says, but when the boy tentatively steps up to him and slides a hand into his hair, he opens willingly enough.

The moan that the boy lets out as Dorian's hot mouth engulfs his cock makes Cullen’s own cock jump and the redhead’s hips stutter in their rhythm.

“ _Merde_ … Alain,” Dark Eyes gasps, “I can feel you fuck him.”

That proves to be Alain’s limit, because he stiffens and then thrusts deep into Dorian with a low groan. When he pulls out and steps away on shaky legs, Dorian’s hole glistens with oil and seed, and Cullen can't help running his finger lightly around the rim.

When he looks up, a muscular man with a relatively-unadorned mask and a burn scar on his torso—a templar, or a former one, Cullen would stake a large sum on it—has stepped up to them. He nods at Cullen before pushing roughly into Dorian with no hesitance or pretence at sweetness. Dorian gasps around the cock in his mouth, and Cullen wonders if he can smell lyrium. The probably-templar sets a punishing pace, gripping Dorian’s hips hard enough to bruise as he holds Dorian exactly where he wants him.

His momentum forces Dark Eyes’ cock into Dorian’s throat with each thrust. The boy’s desperate whimpers echo off the walls, mingling with the wet sounds of fucking and the templar’s grunts and the slap of skin on skin as their observers touch themselves. Cullen wraps his hand around his own cock almost as an afterthought. He grips loosely, strokes unhurriedly, allowing pleasure to build slowly as he focuses his attention on Dorian. He watches Dorian’s fingers dig into the flesh of Dark Eyes’ thighs, and sees the boy grow bolder, tightening his grip on Dorian’s hair and fucking up into his mouth in rough rhythm with the templar’s thrusts. Dorian is exquisite like this: his dark skin glistening with sweat and steam over the shifting muscles in his back and legs, his body pliant as he’s manhandled between the two men, his eyes closed in pleasure behind his mask.

Dark Eyes whines suddenly and stumbles back, his softening cock slipping from Dorian’s lips. Cullen slides a hand into Dorian’s hair and brings their mouths together, seeking the bitter taste of the youth’s seed on Dorian’s tongue. He pulls back and watches the line of Dorian’s throat as he swallows the rest. The templar grunts and finishes, and Cullen nods at the masked, dark-skinned man—a Rivaini, perhaps—who steps up behind him.

“May I?” someone murmurs, the accent Orlesian.

Cullen looks up, quickly schooling his face into a neutral expression when he recognises the mask of a minor noble he’d met at the Winter Palace.

There’s a knowing set to the man’s shoulders as he sweeps his gaze over Cullen’s naked form. “You are not participating… ser?”

In the pause, Cullen hears the suggestion of the word ‘Commander’. A thrill of something shoots up Cullen’s spine; he has never been interested in the Game, but there’s something exciting about this precipice of pretence they’re all balancing on. The threat of being exposed, being caught, shouldn’t make his cock twitch, but it has, ever since that night in the Herald’s Rest.

His mouth feels stuffed with cotton when he opens it to speak. He shakes his head instead, and gestures toward Dorian. As the noble cups Dorian’s chin and presses his cock to Dorian’s lips, Dorian meets Cullen’s gaze. His eyes glitter dangerously, and Cullen knows that Dorian can tell exactly the effect this has on him. That he planned it. A groan escapes Cullen’s lips before he can hold it back.

Time passes in a whirl of bodies and hands and cocks, too many for Cullen to keep track of. A stout dwarf who slides his cock into the mess running down Dorian’s thighs, praising Dorian all the while in ringing tones. A man with silver hair beneath his handsome mask eagerly guides his young, elven companion through fucking Dorian, his wizened hands never leaving the elf’s hips. A group of maskless men, with golden-skinned bodies that bear an assortment of interesting scars, stripe Dorian’s back with seed, chattering all the while to one another in Antivan. Cullen watches them all, drinking in the sight of them taking their pleasure from Dorian’s body, leaving their marks upon him, pleasuring him in return.

When Cullen can stand it no longer, when Dorian’s legs have begun to shake and his eyes are glassy with need, Cullen buries his face in Dorian’s neck, breathing in the scent of the men who went before.

“Can you take one more?” he murmurs into Dorian’s ear, and Dorian moans his assent.

Dorian’s body is pliant under Cullen’s hands when he runs them over it, rubbing the drying seed into Dorian’s skin. He lets his hands roam down over Dorian’s back, over his arse, fingers skating around his hole before slipping in. It offers no resistance, loose and slick as it is with the work of those who went before him. Cullen’s cock slides in just as smoothly. He thrusts, once, twice, drawing his cock all the way out to see it glisten with oil and seed. Men around them are watching it too; he feels their hungry eyes on him. Dorian moans and shifts beneath him, impatiently, and Cullen leans forward, wrapping his hand around Dorian’s cock.

“Come on, love,” he murmurs into Dorian’s ear. “Let them see you.”

Dorian gasps out something that might be an affirmation or a curse, writhing at Cullen’s touch. Cullen holds him steady, strokes him firmly, Dorian’s cock as familiar in his hand as his own. It doesn’t take long before Dorian shivers and comes with a sigh. Cullen wipes his hand on Dorian’s thigh, letting Dorian’s seed mix with the stickiness already gathered there. Then he settles his hands on Dorian’s hips and lets himself take.

It won’t be long, he knows. The work of eyes and hands and vicarious desire have brought him close to his peak already. Dorian’s body is like fire against his skin and the sounds he makes draw moans to Cullen’s own lips. There are still eyes upon him. Upon them. He can hear them moving, kissing, fucking. Pleasure blooms suddenly, intensely at Cullen’s core, sharp and bright like a burst of lightning from Dorian’s palm, consuming his whole body in a rush of bliss.

With his legs threatening to give way beneath him, he pulls out sooner than he cares to, admiring as he does so his own addition to the mess clinging to Dorian’s skin. He offers his hand to help Dorian up before sitting down heavily on the bench. Around them, others begin to leave, in pursuit of new entertainments.

Dorian stands before him, apparently unselfconscious of how his body looks, marked and bruised and used. Somehow, debauched as he is, he still manages to look haughty.

Cullen looks up at him, a smile tugging at his lips that he can’t seem to keep from spreading over his face. “That wasn’t what I was expecting when you told me to wear this mask,” he says.

“Well, you’ll have to keep it on a little longer,” Dorian says, turning away. “I fully intend to actually bathe before we leave here.”

Cullen watches him stride across the room for a moment before pushing himself to his feet again.

“Oh, and don’t lose it,” Dorian calls over his shoulder. “You’ll need it for next time.”

Grinning to himself, Cullen follows him.


End file.
